


Remote Control

by naiad (iamnaiad)



Category: Queer as Folk (UK)
Genre: Future Fic, M/M, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-10
Updated: 2010-11-10
Packaged: 2017-10-13 03:48:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/132494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamnaiad/pseuds/naiad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The whole bloody situation was ludicrous. No one was going to believe it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remote Control

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kaydeefalls](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaydeefalls/gifts).



Nathan couldn't believe he was face down on the fucking floor. Face down was supposed to be fun. Face down was not supposed to happen in the local branch of the Bank of London.

He sighed and the carpet tickled his nose. There was a particularly strong whiff of dust, and what was probably industrial carpet cleaner over the top of mould and rot. He twitched his nose and fought the sensation building inside it. It was no use; the sneeze exploded. Some dim cow screamed. Because it was so easy to mistake a sneeze for a gunshot. Fuck, he hoped he didn't get shot. They had guns; he was sure they had guns.

"Shut it." The voice was close to Nathan. "We're almost done and if everyone just does as we say and stays put, nothing will happen. This is nothing to do with you."

Nathan rolled his eyes. Of course it had something to do with them. They were the bloody customers stuck lying on ancient carpet while two gun-wielding freaks in Dr Who costumes held them hostage for no good reason. The whole bloody thing was fucking ridiculous.

"Right," the second robber, or so Nathan assumed, said. "Let's get on with it."

They shuffled backwards and forwards past Nathan's head.  He tried to get a look at them without moving, but the strain hurt his eyes so all he could see was shoes.  Very nice shoes.  Nathan wondered how often bank robbers showed such expensive and stylish taste in footwear.

What a fucking ridiculous thought. The whole bloody situation was ludicrous. No one was going to believe it. They'd think he was full of bull; robbed by cybermen, right. Fucking Dr Who.

They kept walking past, moving with purpose and accompanied by a weird hissing sound. At a distance he could see more of them - all the way up to their hips and one very nice arse. There was something about the way they were standing near each other that niggled at him. A sense of familiarity he couldn't place. He risked lifting his head to get a better look. That was a fucking mistake.

The one facing him stalked over. Shit was the only appropriate sentiment in Nathan's opinion. Shit. Shit. Shit. The man bent down and grabbed Nathan's hair. Nathan cringed as his face was turned up.

"Oh. My. God," Vince said and Nathan felt his jaw and head drop at the same time.

"Keep still," Vince said in a tone that was all business and no shock. "I don't want to hurt you." Nathan snickered, because it was Vince, and covered it with a cough as Vince continued, "That goes for the lot of you. Nobody moves."

Nathan closed his eyes. Fucking hell. It was no wonder they looked familiar together. He'd only spent two years as a bit player in the Stuart and Vince show; there was no way they wouldn't have looked familiar. He opened his eyes to watch and saw the moment Stuart's - because of course it was Stuart - head snap back from where Vince had whispered in his ear. Ten years and Nathan could still read his body language; pity he hadn't recognised it sooner or he might not have had to lie on this fucking disgusting floor.

Stuart and Vince conferred in hurried, whispered voices that had Nathan dying to know what they were saying. He bemoaned his position on the carpet again and bit his tongue. As much as he wanted to scream and shout and ask where the hell they'd been for the past ten years, it probably wasn't prudent to indicate that he knew the bank robbers on a first name basis.

If robbing was even what they were doing.

The hissing above his head had started up again. Nathan sighed and began listing all the horrible things he was going to say to Stuart and Vince when he got the chance.

Then Stuart said, 'Thank you very much for your time, ladies and gentlemen. We're terribly sorry to have inconvenienced you. And we suggest that if you are a decent human being, you consider banking elsewhere."

There was a shuffle and Stuart and Vince ran from the bank leaving Nathan in the metaphorical dust on ancient carpet. The door slammed. Nathan shot up and took off after them, but out on the street there was no sign of them. They'd melded into the peak hour crowds making for the tube.

Nathan turned back into the bank and started laughing. Of course they hadn't robbed the bank. Pink letters, two feet high, had been spray painted across the teller glass and a dildo wrapped in a bow placed in each window. 'If you're going to fuck us, learn how to do it right.' The manager had been in the papers, Nathan knew. He'd come in to close his account. Maybe the bank would actually fire the homophobic wanker now.

Nathan spent the rest of the day answering questions and mostly lying through his teeth.

*

After work, Nathan dropped his keys on the table by the door and bee-lined for the fridge. He needed a drink and a plan. Then it hit him. Hazel.

The phone was in his hands without any conscious thought. He hit speed dial 3 and waited.

Hazel answered on the thirtieth ring of the third call, her voice hazy with sleep.

"Nathan, you little shit. This had better be good if it's not an emergency."

"Hi, Hazel," Nathan said. "Where the fuck are Stuart and Vince?"

He could hear the hesitation; a brief pause that did nothing but piss him off. "What brought this on?" Hazel asked.

"I just saw them!" Nathan gave in to his inner fifteen year old and stomped into the kitchen. "We speak all the time Hazel, why didn't you tell me they were back in England?"

"Because I didn't know." Hazel sighed and Nathan wanted to scream; to throw the phone at the wall.

"That is such rubbish."

Hazel laughed at him. "Maybe it is, love, but it's the God's honest truth. I get a call once a week and they've popped in unannounced a couple of times. But as far as I know, they've always left the country afterwards."

Nathan sighed. He relaxed his fingers on the phone. They were starting to ache.

Hazel was still talking. "Vince sends me money, but they don't tell me what they're doing." She laughed again. "Stuart said something about being wanted men."

"I'm sure," Nathan said.

"Why didn't you just talk to them, love? The Nathan Maloney I know isn't shy about speaking his mind."

"Because I was a victim of their criminality and they didn't stick around to chat after." And Nathan was annoyed all over again. They'd left him on the carpet, the bastards.

"Good grief, what are they like? Tell me," she said.

"They're gay crusaders or something; it's probably Stuart's idea."

Hazel sighed quietly, "Was there ever any doubt? What did they do?"

Nathan laughed. It was funny after all and the bank had deserved it. "Vandalised my homophobic bastard of a bank and held me and the other customers at gunpoint while they did it."

"Well. That does sound like Stuart." Hazel was quiet for a moment. "Why are you so worked up about seeing them? It's been years; you barely even mention them anymore."

Nathan shook his head a little. "No. I know. It's just... I felt like I was fifteen again, being swept into Stuart's world." It wasn't just that. "I also thought we were friends in the end, that they'd send a postcard or two."

"And come back for you."

Nathan didn't answer.

"Oh, Nathan."

Nathan knew that tone. It was Hazel's parent voice coupled with 'you silly bastard' and 'Jesus Christ aren't you over him yet'. He'd heard her use it on Vince often enough. Nathan wasn't Vince though, he fucking wasn't.

He laughed with as much cheer as he could muster. "I know, I know. I'm not a kid anymore and I have my own life here in London. It's just..."

"I know, love."

"Maybe I'm getting nostalgic for my youth?" Hazel snorted, but Nathan talked over her. "Fuck. That's not it. I just want to know what happened to them and ask why they vandalising banks dressed like morons." They were both silent for a moment. "It's been ten years, Hazel."

Hazel made a soft noise that flipped Nathan's stomach. He was a selfish twat. She was Vince's mother and she'd barely seen them and here he was whinging.

"Sorry, Hazel. I didn't mean to..."

"It's nothing. You forget I got used to your tantrums."

Nathan laughed. "I haven't forgotten." This was stupid. "Hazel?"

"I'll tell Vince you want to talk to them the next time he calls."

"Thanks."

"I can't guarantee anything, mind you, but I'll tell him. Now. Catch me up on that fantastic London life of yours."

*

Nathan was sprawled on the couch, fifth drink in hand, when Thomas came home. Nathan watched him; categorised his qualities. French, fit, smart, charming, wealthy, sexy, in love with Nathan, a homebody, reliable, and comfortable. Fuck. Nathan was old and boring. When had that happened?

Thomas folded his suit jacket neatly over the back of a chair and toed his shoes off gently. Then he walked o the kitchen, poured a glass of water and took a biscuit from the jar on the counter. Nathan ticked off every movement before it happened. Routine. Thomas was big on routine and Nathan knew it as well as he knew his own.

Nathan tilted his head up for the expected kiss and let Thomas curl under his arm. Neither of them said anything; the silence was comfortable and habitual. Finally Thomas spoke. "You're home early," he said.

"Couldn't be arsed tonight." Nathan looked at him and grinned. He slipped a hand under Thomas's shirt and pushed it up slowly. "Should we spend the time wisely?"

Thomas answered his question with a kiss and Nathan leant into it. The sex was good. It was always good.

*

Life went back to normal. Or as close to normal as it could be after being caught up in a crazy act of political vandalism conducted by a former lover and his best friend. Or was it boyfriend now? Nathan thought it might be.

Vince must be overjoyed.

A week and a half after bank incident a mobile phone arrived.

Thomas had put the mail on the table by the door in the designated box he'd placed there when he moved in. When Nathan went through it, the package was waiting for him. It was a small box wrapped in brown paper and his name printed across the front. On the back were a giant 16 and exclamation mark written in red ink. As soon as he saw it he knew who had sent it. Hazel had spoken to Vince.

There was no opening it right then; not with Thomas singing in the kitchen and watching him. God knew what Stuart might have sent, or Vince. He'd been different in the bank. There'd been an aura of confidence that was new.

Nathan had told Thomas about Stuart of course. Those stories were some of the best he had. He'd talked about Vince too, though that had been less flattering and part of his argument against getting involved in a relationship. Regardless, Thomas got twitchy about other men and he'd got it in his head that Nathan still idolised Stuart. As if he ever had.

Nathan was allowed to fuck around, of course. There had been no question about that. He'd tried the monogamy thing for about twenty minutes in 2005 and it had been an utter disaster. He was never doing that again, at least not until he was too old to pull more than one bloke in an evening. Still. Thomas got twitchy and he had a particular Stuart related twitch. It was best he not know that Nathan had heard from him until Nathan knew more.

*

The next morning, after Thomas left for work, Nathan leapt from their bed and raced to his bag. He took no care with the packaging, just turned it over a few times his hands and then ripped it open. Inside was a pre-paid mobile phone. He looked it over sitting on the sofa with his feet tucked under his knees, and wondered when they were going to call. There were no messages inside; not a single thing to indicate why it had been sent or when or what the hell it was for. Nathan had his own phone and Hazel had the number. It seemed unnecessary.

Nathan opened the box and pulled out the phone. Holding it in his hand brought a flash of the day they'd left; disappearing down the street like two heroes in an old movie. Vince had loved it, Nathan remembered. It had been all over his face; he'd looked free.

Nathan switched the phone on and a start up message appeared. 'Carry me always. Leave me behind at your peril. First clue soon.' Nathan got it then.

They were playing a game and he was going to get a call.

*

Nathan carried that bastard phone with him for a week before anything happened. It turned him into a nervous wreck: he jumped at any ring tone or electronic sound that could be a phone, he nearly threw it away several times, and in a fit of frustration chucked it into the loo at the office. He'd spent half an hour taking it apart and drying it before it would work again.

When it finally rang it was a ridiculous song from the Sound of Music. They needed to get past his age. He wasn't sixteen anymore.

It wasn't a call, it was a message. A tiny shiver ran up his spine as he opened it and Nathan told himself he was not getting excited by a phone message. He was better than that. He was a grown man with a job and a partner and a mortgage.

 _'Hull. Oldest log. 48 hours.'_

It was so fucking typical and infuriating and completely Stuart. The man fucked like a champion and he fucked with people's heads like a ten time gold medallist. Christ.

Nathan fingered the buttons and opened the 'reply' option. He tapped out 'fuck you', and then 'I have a life you know' and then 'ok ok' before deleting every last letter and clicking out. He wouldn't reply. Let them wonder if he was going to play their game. He wasn't a fucking teenaged lap dog anymore. He had responsibilities, commitments. There was no time for holidays or gallivanting about the countryside. Hull. As if he'd waste his time in Hull.

Just as he'd resolved not to go, the phone buzzed again.

'No need to reply. We know you'll come. You always did.'

Nathan stomped into the bedroom and shoved the phone up the back in the bottom drawer of his dresser. He looked at the closed drawer for about ten seconds then fell to his knees and took the phone back out.

Of course he was going. Stuart was going to see what Nathan had become; he was going to rub it in his old, wrinkly face. He'd take a photo of Thomas before he left - a naked one.

*

"Right. So I'll be gone for a few days," Nathan said into his own phone. "I just need a bit of a holiday; you'll able to run things without me. You've been there long enough."

Hands slipped around his waist and Nathan jumped. "Yes, I'll have my phone. Okay. Yes. Bye."

"We're going somewhere?" Thomas asked.

Nathan grimaced and turned around to kiss Thomas. "I'm going somewhere. I heard about a club that sounds like it might be a good investment, but I didn't want to mention it to Charlie."

"Maybe I can take a few days off and come with you?" Thomas ran his hands over Nathan's arse.

"No," Nathan said. "Sorry, I mean, it just won't be any fun. I'll be working the whole time, you know? And you hate networking."

Thomas kissed Nathan again and Nathan could feel the effort he was putting into making it seductive. "Are you sure?" Thomas asked. "We could make a weekend of it. It could be like our first few weeks together."

When they'd fucked like they were about to die. Nathan closed his eyes and wondered when things had started to feel so claustrophobic. He needed to get away, find some space to breathe. "It'd be a bore. Seriously. I won't have any time to spare and you'll just be stuck sitting around in the hotel."

"I don't care, Nathan. I haven't seen you much lately. It would be nice to spend some time together."

It was time for the trump card.

"It's in Hull," Nathan said. "Do you really want to be stuck in Hull for a week while I'm tied up with work?" Nathan watched Thomas's face closely. There it was. The tell tale squint of Thomas's left eye as he tried to work out the most diplomatic way of extracting himself from an unwelcome situation. Nathan had seen it a thousand times watching Thomas fended off unwanted potential shags.

"No. No you're right." Thomas slipped a hand into Nathan's briefs. "It would be boring. Perhaps when you come back you could take some more time and we could go to Paris."

Nathan nodded. "That sounds fab." He shifted his hips forward; a distraction seemed like the perfect thing and he was horny.

Thomas laughed and tightened his grip on Nathan's arse. "When do you go?"

"In the morning. I'll drive."

"Then we'd better make sure you're too tired to have too much fun without me."

"I never have fun without you," Nathan said.

"Liar."

*

The drive to Hull was interminable. Miles and miles of motorway and nothing entertaining about it. Nathan occupied himself by singing along to his 'tragic 90's music' play list, then as he passed the sign for Hull, he realised he had no idea where he was going or where to stay. He pulled in at the first service station and picked through the ancient tourist brochures in the display by the counter. It was pretty fucking optimistic of them, Nathan thought. As if tourists would want to visit Hull. It was all rugby and boats.

"Can I help you?" The man behind the counter asked.

"No. Thanks," Nathan said and then thought better of it. "Actually, yes. I need to stop in Hull for a night or two, where can I find a decent hotel?"

"There are a bunch on the road in. Keep going straight and you can't miss 'em. Or there's some near the museum in town."

"Museum? Right. Thanks." Nathan stepped towards the exit and the doors slid open. "Oh. Stupid question. Do you know what someone might mean when they talk about the oldest log in Hull?"

"Not a clue, mate. Sorry."

"Thanks."

*

Nathan drove into the centre of Hull and picked the first hotel he could find that didn't look like he'd be murdered in his bed. It was a red box with pretensions of period features. Inside was spectacularly awful; the seventies decor looked as if it had been vomited on by the eighties.

He walked up to reception and said, "I'd like a room for two nights, please?"

The concierge was small and weedy, but had that look that suggested he'd stab a man in a second if he felt like it. He looked Nathan up and down then nodded. "Just you is it?"

"Yes."

"Fill this in. I'll need a credit card."

Nathan slid his credit card across the desk and marvelled that a place so tacky had the audacity to take a credit card imprint. Then again, it did look like it catered to the type of clientele that would do a runner.

When they were done, Nathan took the key and asked, "Do you know what the oldest log is?"

*

It turned out the oldest log was some fishing boat in the Hull and East Riding Museum in the arse end of Hull. Nathan supposed it was the cultural district, but it failed miserably in his opinion. As soon as he'd asked the concierge at his hotel had mistaken Nathan for some sort of amateur boating historian or something equally ridiculous and talked his ear off for half an hour. Nathan didn't give a shit about the latest boat building techniques or the annual log boat race and had first thought the man was using the world's clumsiest pick technique. It turned out he was just a mad keen fisherman.

Nathan had no idea what he was supposed to do at the log boat so he left for the museum early on the first morning. He did a lap of the exhibits and then stood by the boat. He stood there for hours, waiting and trying not to look a complete idiot. Every now and then he'd do another lap, but he didn't want to be away from the log for too long. He had no idea what to expect and didn't want to miss Nathan and Stuart if they did show up. Eventually he resigned himself to staying put and having his ear talked off by every batty enthusiast and trainspotter in all of England.

After four hours there'd been no sign of either Stuart or Vince the phone hadn't so much as beeped. Nathan was getting impatient and more than a little annoyed. He was fucking ridiculous. The whole situation was fucking ridiculous.

Just as he decided to leave, a courier messenger walked in looking very confused. He glanced around, realised that Nathan was the only one there, and walked over. "Are you Nathan Maloney?"

So no Stuart or Vince then. "Yes," he said.

"Right. I've got a package for you. Sign here."

Nathan signed and took the envelope. Inside was an old-fashioned Polaroid photo of Stuart and Vince. They were sunburnt and laughing. Stuart wasn't looking at the camera, but straight at Vince. Nathan flipped the photo. On the back it said, _'1999, Texas, S & V 1, trucker 0'._

Then the phone buzzed.

 _'Morecambe. The statue. Tomorrow. Don't be late. Wouldn't want to miss you.'_

They were fucking bastards. He had Hazel's number ringing before he thought better of it and hung up. Did they think he had nothing better to do than drive from one corner of England?

Back at the hotel Nathan paid his bill and assured the concierge that the log boat had indeed been fascinating and amazing. It took him twenty minutes to escape the enthusiastic monologue on single log versus multiple log boats. Eventually he cut the man off with a cheery, "Thanks. That was fascinating," and walked away.

When he left he drove towards home, but after twenty minutes a spot behind his ear started to throb and breathing felt a little bit harder. He wondered what he was in such a hurry to go back to. Thomas wasn't going anywhere and neither was work. Everything would be the same whether he came home today or next week. And how bad could Morecambe be anyway?

His phone rang.

"Hello."

"It's me."

"Hi. How's London?"

"Great." Thomas said. "I miss you."

"I've only been gone a day and a bit. I'll be home soon and you'll see me then." He was such a fucking twat when it came to boyfriends. "I miss you too," he said, because Thomas was waiting for it. How Nathan had ever ended up with a long term boyfriend in the first place was a mystery to him. He blamed Vince. And Stuart. All of Nathan's insecurities came back to them; his last therapist had said so.

*

Nathan had been wrong. Morecambe was every bit as bad as Hull. It was like Blackpool, only worse; the decaying fairs towered over the beach like giant corpses. At least the hotel was nice. The Midland was as good as anything in London.

He checked in, slept for a few hours and had a shower. Then he went to the front desk to ask about the statue. The concierge was as far from the one in Hull as humanly possible. Immaculate, blonde, female and probably not the least bit interested in fishing, she answered his question impersonally, but politely.

The statue was of Eric Morecambe, who was apparently quite important. Nathan didn't care about that, but he did wonder what it was about Eric Morecambe that made the sculptor immortalise him in a pose that was campier than Alexander or Darren at their finest. When he'd arrived Nathan had walked around the statue multiple times, barely believing his eyes. Then he'd read the plaque for some type of clue and realised that the statue was meant to be serious. He'd sat on the nearby bench and laughed for ten minutes straight. He laughed every time he looked at it and he was still laughing when the courier arrived.

It was another photo. Stuart and Vince were still tanned and if possible, smiling even more than in the last photo. Nathan wasn't sure he was looking at the same people he had known. They took up most of the photo frame but in the back left hand corner was the Sydney Opera House.

Nathan's phone rang. "Hello."

"Hey. It's me."

Nathan looked at the photo, at Stuart and Vince's eyes. "Hi, Thomas. Is everything all right?" He wondered if he ever looked like that when he was with Thomas.

"Fine. I just wanted to talk to you."

"Oh." Nathan didn't think either he or Thomas ever looked like that when they were together. He flipped the photo over. It said, ' _2001\. Sydney. V &S 1, bigoted cab driver 0.'_ "I can't really talk right now. I'm about to walk into a meeting. Can I call you back?"

"That's fine. I'll talk to you later?"

"Absolutely," Nathan said. "Bye."

He looked at the other phone as it buzzed.

 _Sorry. Morecambe's not for us. Bexhill on Sea. De La Warr. Tomorrow night.'_

"You have got to be fucking kidding me," he said.

"All right, mate?" a man strolling past asked.

Nathan looked up and bit back his first response. "Fine. Thanks."

Stuart and Vince were making him jump as high as they wanted. And he was letting them because every time he looked at those photos his desire to go home to London got a little bit smaller. Driving all over the countryside was starting to feel a bit like running away again. He could feel it creeping up from his toes; a sense that he didn't have to answer to anyone, that he was free to go anywhere and do anything.

He had no idea what Stuart and Vince were planning or why they had him running all over England - though he had his suspicions that it was for no reason at all and just because they could - but he was finding that he didn't care. Let them have their laugh. Nathan was starting to laugh with them. There was bound to be something awful in Bexhill.

*

There wasn't in fact anything awful in Bexhill, but that was only because there was nothing at all. Nathan had stayed another night at the Midland, luxuriating in the atmosphere of a swank hotel, and then driven to Bexhill the next morning.

He didn't bother with somewhere to stay, just popped into the first shop he saw, got directions to the De La Warr Pavilion and drove straight there. It was hideous, and Stuart and Vince were going to have a lot answer for when he saw them, but this time he only had to wait 15 minutes before the photo arrived.

They weren't looking at the camera in this one, but at each other. Jealousy pinched at Nathan's stomach. There was no one else in the world in that photo and Nathan knew he didn't have that, had never had that. The back read, _'India, 2004. V &S 1, bastard hotel manager 0.'_

Nathan wondered if it was ever V&S 0. It didn't seem to be, but three photos for ten years wasn't exactly comprehensive coverage.

The next message came through and Nathan jumped. He'd forgotten. The photo was captivating.

 _'Liverpool. Royal Liver Bldg. 48 hours. Almost done._ '

Nathan laughed. Of course they were almost done. He'd worked it out. Stuart and Vince wouldn't be in Liverpool either. They were going back to where they'd started. If he wanted, Nathan knew he could bypass Liverpool, but he wanted the next photo.

He got in his car and started to drive. With the music turned up loud, he could feel himself grinning as he sang along and the road passed under him.

*

Nathan drove through the night and stopped at a hotel picked at random. His phone rang and he ignored it until it stopped. He turned it off while he slept and didn't turn it on again in the morning.

Exactly forty eight hours after the message to go to Liverpool, Nathan signed for the last delivery. This one contained three photos.

The first was Stuart and Vince looking at something to the side of the camera and laughing. They weren't as brown as they had been. On the back it said, _'Germany, 2006. V &S 1, Neo-nazi fuck 0.'_

The second was just Stuart. He was looking at the person holding the camera. It was obviously Vince because Stuart wasn't looking anywhere else. _'South Africa, 2007. S1, V0. Flabbergasted.'_ Nathan wondered what that meant, but decided he didn't want to know. It felt personal somehow, as if knowing would be intruding. He smiled at the picture.

The last photo Nathan recognised. It was the three of them walking down Canal St. Nathan had his head thrown back, laughing, and both Stuart and Vince were grinning at him. There were two words, a year and a punctuation mark on the back, _'Canal St, 1999. ?'_ Nathan sat on the steps and stared at the photo. They'd asked him this once before, or Stuart had. He'd never expected a second invitation.

The phone told him he was sixteen going on seventeen one last time. Manchester. Home.

*

Nathan sat on the fence and waited. They hadn't specified a time, but he didn't want to miss them, so he skipped stopping at his mum's or Hazel's . He could do that after; he owed them both a visit. He'd even put up with the nagging without complaining.

He tipped his feet up and down on the railing and tilted his head to look at the sculpture behind and above him. B is for Bang. It was fucking typical. And if the other places had been Vince, and Nathan was sure they were, this was all Stuart. They'd be here. It wasn't even a question. Of course the end point was Manchester. He was just surprised it wasn't Canal St. Why they hadn't picked Via Fossa or Babylon he had no idea. It wasn't as though either of them had closed down. The more Manchester changed the more it was exactly the same. They'd have to go to Babylon together again, see who was king. Nathan had ruled for five years before he got bored and left for London, he had no idea who'd stepped into his shoes.

Nathan leant back and looked at the spikes. He hoped he didn't have to wait long. The fucking things kept dropping off or so his mum updated every time he called, and he didn't fancy being impaled by a gigantic metal spike. When he tipped his head forward again they were the first thing he saw.

Vince and Stuart, walking side by side in that rhythm they had that was theirs alone. It kept everyone else shut out. He'd almost had that rhythm. Once or twice on nights in Canal St he'd walked by their side and felt a part of something. He ran his finger along the edge of the photo in his pocket. Sixteen years old and drowning in hormones and dreams. 

Nathan laughed and saw them smile.

As they got closer Nathan catalogued the changes. Their shared orbit was smaller. Stuart wasn't keeping that deliberate distance that had existed like a slap in Vince's face ten years ago. Nathan wondered how long it had been that way, if the space had shrunk gradually or immediately.

They stopped in front of him, a metre or so back. No one said anything until Vince said, "Hiya" and Stuart smirked.

"Hi," Nathan said and fucking blushed. It was them that caused it. Seeing them together, so completely together, was almost more than he could bear. He felt horny and excluded and jealous and excited all at once. He grinned. "I liked the re-decorating and the presents you left behind, but Cybermen. Really?"

Stuart threw his head back and laughed. Nathan looked at the line of his throat and realised that although Stuart looked older, he was still Stuart Alan Jones. Every inch of him exuded confidence with a side of charisma. He'd aged well, too. There were a few lines here and there and he was thinner than he had been. Nathan looked across at Vince and realised he was being watched. He shrugged his shoulders; he'd always looked at Stuart. Of course he still wanted to shag him. Vince grinned and Nathan smiled back.

Then Vince smiled like he was keeper of the best secret in the world and bumped Stuart's hip with his own. Nathan realised that age had made Vince good-looking. He hadn't been unattractive before, but now he was handsome, sexy. The laugh lines at the corners of his eyes were more pronounced, he wasn't pale anymore and there was just enough grey in his hair that he looked distinguished. He also looked really fucking content - almost blissful, if Nathan was being honest and sappy. Like there was nothing that could possible shake Vince's faith in his life.

Nathan shifted a bit and slid off the rail.

"You should stay up there," Stuart said. "I recognise that pose."

"I don't know how, given how high you were, but of course you do," said Vince. "You recognise them all."

Stuart smirked. "Of course."

They didn't look at each other at all, but Nathan could feel their awareness of each other. He stood up straight and blinked. The moment clicked. "Let's go for a drink," he said and walked between them, away from the Bang and towards the pub across the way. He didn't look back, but he counted the steps. Five it took and then they were flanking him. He wasn't inside the rhythm, not yet, but it was an invitation just the same.

In the pub they slid into a corner booth and Nathan shouted a round. He pushed the drinks across the table as he wondered where to start; what question came first and were any of them really that important. Why run around England like a twat if not for the chance to ask questions?

"It was an anniversary present," Vince said.

Nathan looked at him. "What?"

"The costumes. The bank." Vince tilted his head at Stuart. "They were my anniversary present."

"You celebrate your anniversary?" That was a surprise. Neither of them were really the type.

"Of course we fucking don't," Stuart said. "Vince celebrates the anniversary of the day he decided to run away from his shit life and accept a world of adventure with me."

"Right," Nathan said. "Vince celebrates." He drank a mouthful of beer. "And you just do what he wants so that he can celebrate."

"To be fair," Vince said, "he pretty much does what I want all the time."

And that was it. It was written all over everything they did. Vince knew the power he had now. It had always been there, and Nathan had kicked himself when he finally realised that and understood that a) he'd fucked up by being a shit to Vince and b) he'd never stood any kind of chance.

Nathan laughed. "It's about time. You deserve it."

Vince blinked and then he and Stuart grinned and laughed as well.

"See." Stuart said. "I told you. I fucking told you."

"Was there ever any doubt?" Nathan asked.

"Not really. No," Vince said. "Not after you called Hazel."

"Fuck." Nathan said. "I'm still that predictable?"

"Well, to be honest, we really didn't expect you to run around the countryside at our say so." Stuart reached across the table and flicked Nathan's forehead.

Nathan caught his hand and held it while keeping his eyes on Vince. "I didn't," he said. "After Morecambe I was doing it because I wanted to; I need to get away. And I liked the photos."

Stuart pulled his hand back, but he did it slowly, trailing his fingers over the centre of Nathan's palm. "That's my boy. I knew you weren't that much of a twat."

"Of course not," Nathan said as he lent forward towards Vince. "So. Are we going to do this?"

Vince didn't hesitate. "Yes. We are."

"Fantastic," Nathan said as he left his pint on the table and stood up.

*

Stuart and Vince were staying in a five star hotel with a bed big enough for a football team. Nathan stood at the end and looked at it. It was the first time he'd felt this awkward in a bedroom since Stuart and Vince had left town. He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to look at Vince. "Why now?"

"Why not?" said Vince.

Nathan looked at Vince who looked back, face impassive and unreadable. Nathan shrugged. It was good enough. He leant in and kissed Vince. It started out soft and curious, but before long Nathan was pressed as close to Vince as he could be. Vince's lips were chapped, but not so badly that it felt rough. He tasted like lager and mint and Nathan had never dreamed that he'd be this turned on by Vince Tyler. Nathan could feel himself trembling and waves of heat were rolling from his toes to his head and back down again. Vince was a fantastic kisser, methodical, sensual and completely in control.

Vince lifted his hands from Nathan's back and they were replaced by Stuart - all of Stuart. Nathan could feel Vince's hard on pressing against his thigh and Stuart's against his arse. Vince's arms were wrapped around them both. Caught in the middle, he was so warm his skin felt like sunburn in the shower.

Nathan turned his head around to kiss Stuart, breaking away briefly to raise his arms so Vince could lift his shirt past his head. He hissed as the fabric dragged over his nipples and again as Vince dragged his tongue over one then the other. When Vince was done with Nathan's shirt, he tugged him away from Stuart and drew him back into another kiss. As their skin touched Nathan noticed that Vince had taken his shirt off too. They were really doing this. This was really happening.

Slipping his hands into Vince's pants, Nathan tried to gain some control. The trembling wasn't going away; he hadn't felt like he was going to jump out of his skin like this since the last time he'd fucked Stuart. Everything about this was making him feel like an over-excited teenager all over again. It was horrible and incredible all at once. Nathan traced a finger along Vince's arse, dipping it between the cheeks, and started as Stuart undid his trousers and pulled them down along with his underwear. Vince's hand curled around Nathan's cock and he moaned. Then Stuart's naked body pressed against Nathan's back and his hand joined Vince's and Nathan forgot to breathe.

Nathan no longer capable of moving with any purpose, but he tried his best to participate by moving his hands and kissing Vince. He gave up altogether when both Vince and Stuart knelt at the same time. Nathan hitched a breath and reached out desperately for something to hold as Vince's mouth closed around him and Stuart's pressed in deep.

Nothing was clear from that point on. Nathan was only able to surface for small fragments of time as he drifted in and out of sensory overload. There was Vince's mouth, wet and firm and expert, and Stuart's tongue, flicking and probing and taking him back to the night he'd gone to Stuart's flat after Alfred was born. The shaking in Nathan's legs was out of control. But just as he thought he'd fall, they held him up and pushed him over the edge. He tried to watch, but his vision blurred and he couldn't hear a thing because all the sound had been sucked from the room.

His legs wobbled. He was positive he'd have to learn to walk all over again.

They let him go and Nathan crumpled to the floor between them. "You've done that before," he said, horribly embarrassed by the tremor in voice.

"And we'll do it again," Stuart said.

Of course they would. Nathan was a guest, nothing more than a temporary visitor in Stuart and Vince's universe.

Vince leaned past Nathan's shoulder and kissed Stuart. Then he sat back and rested his palms on Nathan's thighs. "We're off to Spain, next week. Fancy a holiday?"

Temporary was better than never. "Yeah. Yeah, okay," Nathan said and looked up as he heard a click. Stuart was standing over them waving a Polaroid film back and forth through the air.

Stuart laughed, low and dirty. "Fantastic."

**Author's Note:**

> To Sonia, Sin and Al. This wouldn't have happened without you. Thanks.


End file.
